


Tilting at Windmills

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 12:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12935457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: There’s a dead Exxon employee in an old windmill, and there’s more than one power at work.





	Tilting at Windmills

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to themegalosaurus for a heroic read of a very messy draft.
> 
> This is an SPN Reverse Big Bang fic for merakieross's gorgeous art, which you can find [on LJ](https://merakieross.livejournal.com/9987.html) or [on Tumblr](http://merakieros.tumblr.com/post/168268470803).

“This is a windmill, not a silo.”

“I figured that out. The big sails were a clue.”

In fact, Dean’s looking the machinery over with a professional eye. He may not be into historic windmills, but he’s always been good at figuring out how things work. And all the machinery’s supposed to be authentic, though from the outside the place looks suspiciously like packaging for fake Dutch cocoa, too quaint to be real. Ripe for development as touristy window dressing for less-scenic pipeline project. Hence, Stefan Yu, Exxon employee and personable mill enthusiast. Hence, gruesome unexplained death. Hence, Sam and Dean, too late to save people, possibly on time to hunt things. It looks like a good, old-fashioned case, the kind of thing Dean likes. And there’s mill machinery.

The millstones seem businesslike enough, certainly, dusty and solid. At least, what Sam can see of them, under the drifts of kernels. Dean brushes the heavy iron shaft and it’s not hard to imagine the kind of power this place harnessed, wind into stone. Dean walks around it, looking at the shadowy spaces above rather than the corn-drifted floor where Stefan Yu’s body had been found. Sam’s eyes follow Dean.

OK, so Dean interacting with machinery is a little hot. Given the terms of this case — Sam really did stumble across it, no handy text from Mick, but maybe it would have been better to let Dean come up with the make-up case — that’s possibly awkward. Sam should probably be concentrating on businesslike, gruesome details, like people suffocating in a foot of inexplicable grain. Sam’s wearing his FBI suit, even though the locals don’t think it’s a case. That means Sam’s on the job. Though he did get a new tie for it. That suggests that he’s got some mixed expectations, jobwise.

“Point is,” Sam says firmly — yes, he’s on point — “the police and the medical examiner have to have known that something was off. People suffocate in grain in silos.” You see the stories, sometimes, in the small town papers Sam and Dean go through in the line of business. They’ve always given Sam the creeps. He’s seen worse ways to go, God knows, but the thought of ground giving way, being pulled under, suffocating … ugh. “Not in mills.”

There must have been something in Sam’s voice, because Dean glances at him sharply, though whether he’s picking up on Sam finding him interacting with machinery hot or on Sam being disturbed by grain suffocation is anyone’s guess.

“At least he wasn’t ground up. As historic mill cases go, this could be a lot worse.” That’s probably Dean reassuring him about grain suffocation, not pointing out that ground-up person would be more off-putting when it comes to incest sex.

Sam shrugs. He’s shelved the issue. Both issues. Pretending something is not going on with him is not the same thing as lying, at all. Especially when there’s nothing going on with him. He’s going to stick to the case.

“There were maybe two feet of grain in here. Grain that wasn’t supposed to be here. Grain that no-one knows how it got here. Grain that wasn’t deep enough for anyone to die in. But he did. And it got ruled accidental. Something here stinks.”

“A lot of towns aren’t proud of their neighborhood ghost. Especially when they’re about to get a big economic boost from pipeline construction plus a miniature boost from Ye Olde Historic Mill.”

“Until tourist trap gets a bit too literal when the tour includes being drowned in grain by Milton the Vengeful Miller.”

“A vengeful miller. I like the sound of that. It’s got that classic salt ’n burn feel.” _So, this is just a regular us case?_ Dean had asked, when Sam came across the reports on Stefan Yu. Not exactly reproachful, not exactly suspicious, but still pointed. But it looks like Sam did get it right on the cases Dean would like front. Though something about it feels off. Dean doesn’t seem to be picking up on something, so maybe it’s just Sam not quite sure if he’s all the way back from his latest detour to secrets and lies.

Dean’s turning to the door. 

“OK, let’s head back and see if we can find a vengeful miller guy to salt and burn,” he says.

Sam retreats from the dim, grainy interior with hopefully well concealed relief. It’s sort of a lonely spot for a tourist attraction-to-be. Lots of dense woods, one rutted dirt road. Dean had patted the car’s hood apologetically after making her negotiate it. But Exxon and Friends will probably put in pavement and a parking lot and things. Maybe a Gifte Shoppe.

It’s a breezy evening. The trees in the woods are creaking and swaying. The sun’s going down. It looks almost like red eyes in the woods. And the sails of the mill are turning. They make an unearthly, creaking groan that you’d think would suggest ghosts even without mysterious grain deaths. Sam fancies he can hear drifts of kernels inside, shifting and slipping, though when he looks back it’s still in the shapeless heap the police must have swept it into.

Something wet and heavy falls on the dirt near Sam. Not rain. There’s not a cloud in the sky. And, anyway, the liquid is thick and dark. More drops fall. Sam steps back. They’re coming from the turning sails.

“Is the windmill dripping blood?” he asks. 

“There’s vengeful and then there’s messy.” Dean touches a finger to one of the black drops. It’s black and thick, not red. And even from here it smells wrong. Dean smears it between his fingers and then wipes his hands on his jeans, leaving black smears. Not a bloodstained hunter look; a Dean when he’s been working on the car look.

“Oil,” says Dean. “OK, that’s a new one. Grain I get. Windmill, grain. Makes sense. But what the hell kind of vengeful miller spatters crude oil?”

“This whole case is weird,” Sam says.

“Well, it’s your case,” says Dean. Yes, Sam knows. Figures it would turn out to be some kind of a mess, that the classic salt ’n burn feel would be a false cover like the tourist trap mill. But Dean just sounds factual, not accusing. 

“Weird’s what we do,” Dean carries on, briskly. 

Sam breathes a small sigh of relief. Dean’s still in. 

“Research is what we’d better do next,” he says. 

Dean makes the faintly disgusted noise he always makes about research, though it’s not like Dean really hates it, or like he’s bad at it. It’s just a formality, really, Dean pretending that he hates research, making everything normal. Sam hates it and welcomes it. This is what he does. This is what they do, him and Dean. Mom, too.

As they get into the car there’s a noise in the woods, like something big moving, a crunch of underbrush. But then Dean starts the engine and it fades.

 

“Hmm,” says Sam, back at the motel. They’ve got coffee and pizza, two great tastes that go not-so-great together. Dean’s looking at Stefan Yu’s past. Could be he brought whatever it was with him. Sam’s poking through local papers and police reports. No silo deaths. No vengeful millers back in county history. A few missing persons, but mostly of the missing person found variety. And, hmm.

“What?” says Dean.

“There have been a statistically improbable number of accidents on that stretch of road near the mill.”

“Could still be Milton the Vengeful Miller. Or, you know, could be the root of it, even if it’s concentrated at the mill. Dumb kids, old mill the popular make-out place, one cheap beer too many, car wrapped around a tree. Could be haunting the mill and also redoing the car crash.”

“It’s not that kind of car crash, though. No vanishing hitchhikers. No inexplicable skids. Very solid moose-in-the-windshield, mostly. Moose against car seldom ends well for the car. It happens, places like this where they’ve got moose. But it doesn’t happen this often.”

“Did they even put up one of those Moose Crossing signs?”

Almost certainly not. Dean seldom lets a Moose Crossing sign go without mocking Sam. If they’d passed one on the way to the mill, Sam would have remembered. Though maybe he and Dean still aren’t quite back on mocking terms. 

“And another thing,” says Sam. “Some of the moose encounters of the third kind were just tourists, or people looking to buy a country cottage. And most of them walked away. The people who died, one owned a logging company. One was a developer, made a mint on lakefront properties in Vermont. And one worked for Exxon. Just like Stefan Yu.”

“So, Milton the Vengeful Miller and his environmentalist moose army? Yeah, that sounds fake. So maybe not a vengeful miller ghost. Maybe something else. Anything more in the news or police reports?”

“A few missing persons. But most of them turned up. Lost in the woods a few days, scratched up, incoherent, but fine. The incoherence was probably just dehydration. Or are we thinking it could be fae?”

Dean shakes his head.

“The mill machinery is cold iron,” he says. 

“Power,” says Sam, hazily. Maybe just because it’s something he’s been thinking about. The Brits and their not-so-well-oiled machine. The mill, wind into iron into stone into grain into flour. Dripping crude oil. Dean’s hands on the wheel or brushing the shaft of the mill machinery. Choosing sides, that’s a kind of power. Mediation can be an abdication. “Stefan Yu worked for Exxon. Anything on him?”

“Not much. Seems pretty harmless. Wife, one kid. His mother lived with them. He was an ordinary mid-grade corporate schmuck.”

“Power corrupts. Even mid-grade power, maybe.” There’s a comfort in being a cog in the machine, but you’re still implicated in what the machine is doing.

“A bit of a leap to power companies corrupt.”

“You got a better explanation for spectral oil spill?” says Sam. “Though I guess it doesn’t really fit the moose.” He shuts the laptop and yawns. It’s getting late. “I did think, back there, just when we were leaving, that I heard something big in the woods, like an animal.”

“It’s woods. Woods have wildlife. But maybe it’s something. Maybe there’s a pack of weremoose.”

“A herd. Wolves have packs. Moose have herds.” Sam’s pretty sure. They don’t have packs, anyway. But maybe they’re more independent browsers. “And I think we’ve got too many theories going on too little evidence.”

Dean pushes his coffee cup away.

“I think we should go back out there,” he says. “See if we hit a moose. See if anything comes out of the creepy woods. Hang out.”

“Statistically improbable frequency doesn’t mean likely to happen on any given night,” says Sam.

“Well, we’re spinning our wheels here,” says Dean, “might as well sit out under the stars in the spooky woods.” He grabs the green cooler, freshly filled with beer they haven’t touched yet and motel ice.

That sheds new light on the situation. Seems like it isn’t just Sam thinking of this as the make-up case. Even if the classic case is turning out to be not so classic, they can sit on the car and drink beer in dark, possibly haunted woods instead of the comfort of the motel room. It’s a ritual. Even if it’s uncomfortable, it puts them back in their life. It probably wouldn’t be their life if it weren’t uncomfortable.

Sam decides to stay in the FBI suit he’s still wearing. If police cruise by, it will help. And he got a new tie, which, depending on how the make-up stakeout goes, might prove relevant.

The woods are still creepy, but the Impala’s hood is warm. They’re parked beside the dirt road, a hundred yards or so from the dark, straight stretch of two-lane highway. Every now and then a car goes by in a distant whoosh of light. No giant crackle of moose in underbrush, no squeal of brakes. There isn’t even a breeze right now. The leaves hang motionless above them. 

“You think it’s connected, Stefan Yu working for Big Oil and getting ganked in a windmill,” says Dean.

“The oil seems like a clue. Like, it wasn’t something a random mill ghost would be likely to do. And it wasn’t about him personally. I dunno. Maybe I’m, just, like, thinking about it. About being a company man.”

Power’s inevitable. But taking the most efficient means to do as much with power as possible never ends well. Sam should know. He’s drilled for power in all the wrong places. 

Dean looks at him sideways.

“Your boyfriend, Mick. He was a good guy in the end. An OK guy. A maybe sort of OK guy.”

And who knows what that got him.

“He got me nicer hotel rooms than you do, that’s for sure,” says Sam. 

“You were just using him for his library.”

“Which I never even got to see.” Sam genuinely regrets that. It doesn’t look like being some kind of exchange student at Hogwarts will work out. He can’t seem to stop wanting the things people trick him with.

“Yeah, that’s no fair. See, I got you a nice library and you get to live there.”

That’s typical Dean. When did them both being legacies turn into Sam _gets to live there_? But it’s hard to be mad at Dean when Dean’s awkwardly trying to give Sam a life he’ll like. When he’s taking the initiative in the make-up bonding, even though it was Sam’s fuck-up. And when Dean’s maybe genuinely a bit jealous. 

And there’s always something endearing about Dean being seductive. So. They’re going to have slightly belated make-up sex. And Sam was the one most recently in the wrong, so he doesn’t get to be mad during it. That’s a rule. Sam’s rule, really. Dean can be plenty bossy, but Sam makes his own rules. And maybe he does his fair share of seducing. Both because the guy in the wrong should do some of the work and because, well. Sam wants this. He’s been moving towards this all day, watching Dean handle mill machinery. Part of what he owes Dean is owning that he wants this.

He leans back against the car. Dean has a thing about Sam up against the car. 

“Yeah, you treat a guy right,” he says. “Cold car. Incest. Creepy woods. Lots of ambience.”

There’s no reason they shouldn’t go back to the motel for the make-up sex, of course. But Dean’s got a thing about Sam up against the car, and Sam was the one in the wrong, so he has to be, like, alluring. That’s the rule. And the truth is, Dean has a point, with his thing with Sam and the car. Sam’s got some good memories of his ass splayed on cold metal, the way the metal warms and the give and jounce of the tires when things get vigorous. It’s been a while since Sam got fucked up against the car. Sam can do alluring for that. It’s not exactly a hardship. Sam’s good at this. It’s one of the perks of Sam’s checkered past, being good at make-up sex. 

He’s better when it’s him than when it’s Dean. When it’s him that’s fucked up, that is, not when it’s him who gets fucked. Sam’s flexible on the who gets fucked front. But Sam on the whole is better with fucking up. It’s more comfortable. And there’s some kind of power in it. It lets him ask. _Sorry_ is a kind of asking. It gives him a reason to compromise, to give ground. Because sometimes that feeling of ground slipping under him, grain in a silo, going under, sometimes when Sam thinks of it there’s something that squeezes his gut that isn’t fear. 

Sam loosens his tie. Dean’s got a thing about Sam in their FBI suits. Dean’s also got a thing about Sam cutting loose. Sam wanting to get fucked, that’s usually Sam cutting loose. 

There it is, that spark of interest in Dean’s eye.

“Did you just get marginally less uptight and annoying?” he asks.

“Hmmm,” says Sam. “I did some reading, you know, about mill machinery. There’s this thing called Archimedes’ screw.”

“You do know wikipedia’s not erotica,” says Dean. 

Any weird animal fact bookmarks that Sam may or may not have, any folder he may or may not keep them in, any circumstances under which he may or may not open it, that’s none of Dean’s business. Anyway, that’s not the point.

“Archimedes’s screw, though,” he says.

“What are you, twelve?” says Dean, but he levers and turns, so he’s leaning against Sam leaning against the car. He probably felt Sam looking, at the mill. Maybe he even visualizes it, like Sam does, slow sails stuttering in a fitful breeze, then catching. Things being set in motion, somewhere in the dark inside. Stones grinding together, friction getting work done.

Dean’s hands tickle at Sam’s collar, undoing the button behind his tie. The move down Sam’s shirt, unbuttoning, tugging the shirttails out of Sam’s wool/polyester FBI trousers, leaving it hanging open over his chest. Then Dean’s hands move to Sam’s wrist. He’s undoing the little buttons at the cuffs. Dean’s blunt, strong fingers, always so quick and certain at finicky tasks. 

Sam’s been hardening slowly, up against Dean, knowing Dean can feel it. It’s one of the things about make-up sex, when Sam’s fucked up, the way Sam’s body will tell the truth to Dean, the way Sam tries, those times, to let it, to step out of his own damn head and let Dean have that trust. It’s a chance for Sam, too, getting out of his head. Now, Dean’s hand at his wrist, Sam feels that give in the ground, that clutch at his bowels that’s pulling him down. He spreads his legs, just a bit, where Dean’s leaning between them, and it’s all there, Sam’s body wanting, wanting those clever fingers deep inside it, wanting to kick out, take Dean’s fingers deeper, spread itself for Dean’s dick, legs hooked over Dean’s shoulders, neck stretched back. 

And Sam, Sam’s there in his head scrambling out of the way, but the ground slips, it gives way, sliding grains, and Sam — it’s OK, Sam fucked up, it’s OK to go down — Sam goes down. 

Maybe this is why Sam fucks up. 

No, that’s stupid. But if this is something Sam does, in his mess of a life, looking for opportunities, maybe this is something Sam needs to deal with. It’s easier to step back a bit, find someone to work with. He’s used to working with Dean. It’s hard to work with his own stuff, with what he wants, what he decides, to settle for strengths and limits. 

Dean must hear the change in his breathing. This is complicated for both of them. Dean’s hand leaves Sam’s wrist and comes up, twisting loosely in the new tie. It’s still there, pushed free of Sam’s collar, hanging with it’s loosened knot across Sam’s chest. Dean’s hand doesn’t tighten or pull. They’re pulled a bit back from each other, working things out before they go further. That’s a change. It’s probably a good one. 

Sam’s still hard against Dean. Dean’s still pressed between his legs. There’s a long moment, equilibrium. Then Sam tilts his head back on the car. He puts his hand on Dean’s and twists it, so the tie wraps round, tightens against his throat. It’s not like he’s choking. He can breath just fine. But even this light pressure is making the leaves look darker against the sky, making the car feel solider against his back, making Dean’s dick feel harder against his thigh.

There’s a pause again, but it’s not equilibrium now, it’s things moving on. Sam’s slipping, but not like an accident. There’s a 

“Was Archimedes the _give me a place to stand and I’ll move the world_ guy?” says Dean at last. 

“I could look it up on wikipedia,” Sam says, though his breath has gone so rough that it’s hard to talk. He puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders. It’s not exactly hooking his knees over them and presenting his ass, but for now it will do. “Wanna move my world?” he says. 

It’s a line, it’s a cheesy Dean line, but Sam’s breathing free now, though Dean’s hand goes tight and tighter in the tie. He asked. 

Dean leans forward and kisses him, slow and thorough. Then his breath tickles Sam’s ear. 

“You’re going to get naked, now,” he says, “except for the tie. You’re going on wearing the tie. I want you naked on the hood of my car. I want you holding your knees up around your ears,” Dean’s dick thrusts against Sam’s thigh, emphasis, and Sam moans, bangs his head against the car. “You want your ass fucked, you’re getting your ass fucked. You’d better believe I’m moving your fucking world.”

Sam’s got a combustion engine under his back. He’s thinking about that. The Impala always seems so calm. Sam’s knees are against his ears, like Dean said, and Dean’s fingers are busy inside him, Sam tossing his head. The Impala gives a little when Sam moves, lifting and turning around Dean’s probing fingers, but she’s steady. She runs on fossil fuels, on old, pressured things that don’t burn clean. She gets it. But she’s an engine. Whatever she works on, it feels good to run, to turn over, obey. Sam moans at that. It’s OK. Sam’s not following orders. He’s taking what he wants. That’s responsibility. Better late than never.

Dean’s taking his fingers out. He puts them in Sam’s mouth and Sam sucks, tasting himself on them. His own power, fueling this, Dean’s eyes going dark. Dean pulls his fingers away, pushes Sam’s knees down so they’re flat on the car, still hitched up. It hurts like a workout hurts. Dean tangles his hands in the tie and twists it tight. Blood thuds in Sam’s ears. His ass is up, waiting. Dean’s dick pushes in.

It’s power, it’s always power, the mill wheels creaking, Dean’s thighs pistoning, his cock punching into Sam. Sam can’t give power away, even now, dark spangling his eyes as the new tie tightens, view of leaves tunneling. But he can take his own side, take responsibility, even for wanting. He arches up off the car. His hips stutter and spasm. Come shoots up his chest, more, more, a hot strong splatter. His ass contracts, milking Dean. Dean groans and thrusts in. His mouth drops against Sam’s throat, biting behind the knot in Sam’s tie. Sam spreads his legs wider, impossibly wider, and feels Dean fill him. 

 

“That, uh, thanks,” says Sam, awkwardly putting the FBI suit back on. Dean’s already dressed. Getting dressed again is never alluring. 

Dean just says, “Shhh.” Sam belatedly remembers that they were on stakeout. That’s Sam. Solving personal problems with sex at inopportune times. To be fair, it was also Dean.

There’s a breeze in the branches. The night had been still earlier, at least, as far as Sam had spared attention for it. But now there’s a breeze. Sam thinks he can hear the mill’s sails creaking, though he shouldn’t be able to. It’s too far off. He thinks he can smell oil, too. That might be the car. Still. He looks at Dean and sees the same alertness in Dean’s face. They move shoulder to shoulder. Dean’s got his gun out. Sam grabs Ruby’s knife. When they don’t know what they’re dealing with, it’s better to diversify. 

A tiny whirlwind has picked up in the road in front of them, dirt and twigs and leaves. It intensifies as Sam watches, widening in a funnel from its narrow base. The wind is rising in the trees, but this has its own motion, regular as a working mill. Sam is catching glints of metal in it, now, and a dull, dense dusty gold. Wheat grains. He has a sudden vivid picture of the thing spreading to suck him in, of breathing grain till he stops struggling, till he falls and the thing sucks him down. The first grain stings his cheek. Dean’s gun goes off. The grain thickens into a blizzard.

Sam thinks he hears growling. Something seizes the back of his collar. Probably Dean, pulling him back. Except Dean doesn’t grab him with his teeth. Dean doesn’t breathe down his neck quite so hotly. Dean doesn’t have thick, black fur and big, padded feet.

Great. First Sam’s attacked by some kind of elemental, now he’s being mauled by a bear. 

The bear is hauling him through the woods. At least it’s getting him away from a grainy death. Dean’s somewhere, yelling “Sam!” and a strange voice, a woman’s, is saying “Shut up and come with us.” 

Sam coughs up a few grains of wheat and concentrates on shielding his eyes as he bumps over the ground. 

It’s probably not that long before the bear lets go, leaving Sam on a hard stone surface. The bear seems to be moving backwards, leaving him alone. Maybe it, like, brought Sam home to its hungry cubs. Sam opens his eyes.

He’s in a cave. He’s in a cave with a bear. Not so much bear’s den, though. A civilized cave. There’s a kerosene lamp in a niche on the wall, what looks like a wood stove, even a bookcase. And Dean is there. Dean’s not saying anything. Probably because a slight, wiry grey-haired woman has an arrow leveled at his heart. Or because there’s a bear. It’s moved around to sit by the woman with the bow. It’s a black bear, brown muzzled, swaying a little on its haunches. The woman doesn’t seem bothered.

“What the hell is going on?” says Dean. “Lady, with the utmost respect for you and your bear, what the hell’s going on?”

“You’ve been rescued,” says the woman. “You’re welcome.” She lowers the bow a little, nods at the bear.

“What do you think, Ursula?” she says. 

The bear — Ursula — stands on her hind legs and snuffs at Dean’s hair. Then she turns to Sam and makes a kind of snuffling rumble. 

“Hunters,” says the woman. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Another fucking stupid consequence. You’re here about Stefan Yu, aren’t you? The late Stefan Yu, pipeline developer and historic mill enthusiast.”

“We’re here about a guy drowning in grain,” says Dean, “yeah. You know something about it? You or your trained bear?”

“Something,” says the woman. “Look, let’s get a couple things straight. first, Ursula isn’t _my bear_. She’s my partner. In every sense of the word. Like Agent Trousers Down is your partner, in every sense of the word. And second, we rescued you. Not so likely we’d do that if we were behind what’s going on.”

So she saw them fucking. That’s … awkward. Though maybe awkward is integral here.

“And who are you?” says Dean. “And what is going on?”

“Hester. I live here. I’ve lived here for a long time. This patch of country is important to me. Because of Ursula. Because of other things.”

“And Ursula is your girlfriend. And she’s a bear.”

“Most of the time. And you’re hunters. I warn you, if you hunt Ursula, I’ll kill you. Or I would. She’ll kill you first.”

Dean leans against the cave wall like he’s at ease. Maybe he is, even.

“We consider ourselves provisionally rescued,” he says. “I’m Dean Winchester. This is my brother, Sam.”

Sam opens his mouth and closes it. They don’t usually go with brothers to people who catch them fucking. Then again, this woman’s girlfriend is a bear.

“Ah,” says Hester. “I’ve heard of you.”

She looks them over inscrutably. Then she gets down a jug from a shelf. It’s an old bottle that once held cheap white wine — Sam vaguely recognizes the label, not from Jess, from when they’d sometimes had cut-rate wine and candles with dinner, from further back, from Dad. Though Dad hadn’t usually had white wine in it. It has a picture of a little line of creatures, a fish carrying a basket. The stuff Hester has in it doesn’t smell like white wine, either. 

She pours three glasses and a big, shallow dish that she puts on the floor. The bear, Ursula, touches it with a delicate tongue, testing, gives an approving, assessing growl that sounds absurdly like Dean. Sam tastes, too, because what the hell. He doesn’t think scary bow lady is likely to poison the not-my-bear bear. It smells of honey and sun and it’s got a kick like a mule. Dean sips as well. His eyebrows go up, genuinely impressed. Sam knows that look like he knows exorcisms, these days, forwards and backwards.

“Let’s start over,” says Bow Lady — Hester. “I’m Hester. This is Ursula.” The bear looks up from its — her — dish, and for a moment Sam sees a woman, stocky, brown-skinned with cropped, greying hair and kind of professorial look. Not what he expects of a maybe-werebear, drinking — mead? — from a dish on the floor in a cave. Then it’s just the bear again.

“And Ursula is a bear.”

“Most of the time,” says Hester again. “We’re not too fond of hunters. Traditional or your kind. But we’ve got a situation. We might need some help.”

“Stefan Yu’s got a situation. A being dead situation.”

“I don’t give a flying shit about the guy. But we got a situation that killed him. And it’s not likely to be the end of the trouble.”

“Stefan Yu,” says Dean. “He was forty-eight. Had a kid in college. Supported his widowed mom. Seemed decent enough.”

“Maybe he was. But he worked for bad people. What he was doing, the pipeline, that was a death sentence for Ursula. Down the road, what he was doing’s apocalypse for us all. So spare me the pieties. I don’t give a fuck that he’s dead.”

“Sam and me, we’re not pious. But saving people is what we’ve got.”

Dean’s speaking for both of them. But then, Hester is speaking for Ursula. Maybe because Ursula’s a bear, but still. For all Sam knows Ursula is thinking that Dean has a point, the way a corner of Sam’s mind is saying _good_ at the fate of poor Stefan Yu.

“Saving this patch of land is what we’ve got, me and Ursula. Stefan Yu was building a pipeline over it. We’ve been trying to stop it. It’s our job. This land’s got a guardian. Ursula.”

“But the guy who was building the pipeline getting ganked is a problem for you.”

“Not exactly. Though it’s attracting attention. The locals, they know this place. They won’t call anyone in. But you called yourselves in. Hunters are never good news. But this time we might need your help.”

“So tell us what’s going on. You got a guy drowned in grain. Sam and me just got attacked by a mini-tornado. And you got what my brother says is a _statistically improbable_ line-up of moose-related accidents. If you want our help, tell us what you want it with.”

There’s a lot crackling through the cave, undercurrents, complications. Sam’s still not sure why Dean put it on the table, that they’re brothers, to people who know what they do together, even if someone married to a bear isn’t in a position to judge.

Hester looks at Ursula, like she’s checking for permission. Ursula nods her big, bear head.

“Like I said, Ursula’s a guardian. Some bits of country — we don’t know which, we don’t know why — they defend themselves. Threats come up, they fend them off. Or they try. But the threats now are pretty damn big. Pollution. Climate change. Ursula, she made a choice. She works with me. We do what we can. But we’re losing. And some of Ursula’s people, some of the other defenders, they’re not OK with losing. Which I can understand.”

“We get losing,” says Sam. And he gets wanting something that can win.

“So one of your guys has gone rogue and he’s got a moose army?” says Dean.

“No,” says Hester. “One of our guys has gone rogue and he’s using the mill. And a forge. And other things, maybe. The moose are Ursula’s. Don’t think, because we need help, that we’re not dangerous.”

“People died in those crashes,” says Sam. “Not all of them. Some of them walked away. But some of them died.”

“Nature’s under no obligation not to be dangerous. But dangerous in its own way. You know how in _Lord of the Rings_ , the good guys can’t use the Ring? We got something here that thinks it can use the Ring. Humans, they’ve gone down the road with power. They’ve gone down the road with fuel. It’s not a good road. But at least humans don’t have their own power. We’ve got an elemental using a windmill. I know that doesn’t sound huge. One dead guy. But this is big.”

“OK, I get the windmill’s spooky. I get it killed a guy. But we’ve seen a lot of killed guys. You must have, too, given how you killed some of them. We’ve also seen big. I’m not seeing how this is big.”

“Windmills use elemental power. So do nuclear reactors, for that matter. This thing IS an elemental power. There’s a feedback loop involved. And it might not stop at windmills. You want to see what will happen when an elemental takes over a nuclear power plant?”

“OK,” says Dean. “So you’ve got a problem starting small that might get big. What do you want us to do?

“What you usually do with problems. Figure out how to kill it. Arrows certainly don’t work. Ursula can’t take this one down. Whatever other power it’s got, she’s still the Guardian, and it’s an elemental. It draws on her strength. You two, you’re hunters. Ursula may have a body count, fighting back, keeping this place safe, but it’s nothing to yours. You’re hunters. What you do is kill things. We need some help with that. All the power we can access is connected. We need something from outside.”

They’re not just hunters, Sam thinks. They’re also Men of Letters. Even if that’s another wrong turning when it comes to power, it’s part of their legacy. 

“We’ll think about it,” says Dean. “Look, we’re not exactly on your side. We’re here because someone died. So, yeah, we’re up for stopping the thing that killed him. But, from what you say, Stefan Yu might just as well have died of moose against windshield. And then it would be you and your bear friend we’d be trying to stop.”

Hester shrugs.

“We’re not going to stop fighting,” she says. “You protect what you have to protect. So do we. How about a strictly temporary alliance? You don’t work for us. You’re consultants.”

Sam looked at one of his Stanford class reports, once. Half the people he went to school with ended up consultants. So now he’s joined them. 

 

“Penny for your consultant thoughts,” says Dean. They’re back leaning on the car. Sam’s not doing alluring right now. He’s trying to think. 

“I was thinking about what she said, about something from the outside. The Men of Letters, not the Brits,” Sam adds hastily, “just in general, our guys, too, they used angel feathers in some spells. Something from outside. They did it for dealing with time.”

“You think we need to get Cas and, like, pluck him a bit?”

“I … don’t think so,” says Sam, slowly. He’s done a fair amount of spellwork by now, he’s texted back and forth with Max a bit, he thinks he’s beginning to get a feel for how it works. It’s power, too, but it hangs together by association. If you take it out of that web, if you put in something too incongruous, it doesn’t work. “This isn’t a heaven and hell thing. It’s this world, the living world.”

“But Ursula’s the nature spirit elemental whatever-the-fuck. And Hester says her mojo doesn’t work, just turns into some using her strength against her thing. Maybe we should just lob a grenade at it.”

Dean and his grenade launcher.

“Probably not a good plan,” says Sam. “If its schtick is turning human tech into engines for its kind of power, explosives are probably a bad idea.”

“What, then? No demon stuff, no angel feathers no woo-woo nature shit, no human tech. That’s not leaving a lot of options.”

Putting it that way gives Sam an idea.

“It does leave an option, though,” he says. “Fairies.”

Dean snorts.

“I know,” says Sam, “but think about it. They’re part of our world, but they’re not. They don’t end up in heaven or hell or purgatory. They’re, they’re sourced elsewhere. We need elsewhere.”

“They’re also creepy and annoying,” says Dean. 

“I know you don’t exactly have fond memories,” says Sam, “but that’s another thing: you can see them. And they do bargain, we know that.”

“I can see them. They don’t come when I call like a dog or something.”

“So we need to summon one.”

“How? Leave a bowl of milk by the back door?” he says. “That’s the lore, isn’t it?”

“We could try,” says Sam.

“Do we even have milk?” says Dean.

Sam rummages in the cooler. They don’t exactly have milk, but he has a bunch of those little plastic creamers. They’re dairy. That should do, shouldn’t it? They don’t have much in the way of dishes. In the end Sam just peels the lids back from six creamers and sets them out in a ring on the ground. Fairy rings, that should be at least vaguely appropriate. Then he waits. So does Dean, though his stance says _I think this is stupid._ It’s OK, he’s still backing Sam’s play.

It’s not like Sam really thinks deep down this will work. He almost jumps out of his skin when the forest floor rustles and one of the tiny creamers lifts maybe nine or ten inches off the ground, tilts, and empties. Dean goes tense and draws in a hissing breath, but doesn’t move or speak. Sam follows his lead. Dean’s the one who can see, here.

Dean waits till all six creamers are empty, littering the ground. Then he steps forward and draws a breath.

“We need your help,” he says, “we’re willing to trade.”

An acorn flicks away from the small, scuffed patch of ground Dean’s talking to. It looks contemptuous to Sam.

“Our market is always open for the right price.” The voice sounds like rustling leaves and the small, sharp snap of breaking twigs.

“Let my brother see you,” says Dean. “He can, uh, explain the situation.” _Thanks a lot,_ thinks Sam, but this was his idea, after all. “Easier all around if we can all see each other.”

“Very well,” says the rustling, snapping voice. Sam blinks and there it is, wiry, less than a foot high, the color of old oak leaves. Its face is more birdlike than human, beak curving like a thorn, but it has four spindly limbs.

“Explain,” it says.

Sam sums up the situation as best he can. The creature listens intently, without stirring, but when Sam trails of it shrugs.

“We can do nothing against cold iron,” he says. “If something is meddling with your machinery, the problems’s none of ours.”

“We’re not asking you to jinx the mill machinery. Or the forge or whatever. Or the nuclear reactor, if it works its way up to that. But this can’t be something you want happening. All we need is a weapon that can bring it, him, whatever, this thing, down. I want to buy an elf-bolt.” From what Sam’s read, they’re not killing weapons so much as life-disrupting weapons. Seems like something that ought to work on a vaguely person-shaped field of power.

“Arms-trading,” says the creature. “At least you humans are consistent in your obsessions. And what will you give?”

Sam doesn’t have an exact head-inventory of the Impala’s trunk, but they’ve got enough miscellaneous crap that there’s sure to be something.

“Artifacts,” he says. The thing shakes its head. “Weapons of other kinds,” Sam tries again. Though God knows what Dean will do to him if he trades the grenade launcher. 

“We aren’t arms-traders,” says the creature. “Try again.”

“Plaid shirts?” says Sam, because it’s worth a try. For a moment he almost thinks that worked, because the creature grabs at Dean’s jacket, but it goes on swinging up, hand over hand, till it’s perched on his shoulder, peering into his eye. And Dean’s wearing his FBI suit, anyway.

“We could take a pretty green eye, it says. “We remember your pretty green eyes. Eyes that see us. Those are an unchancy thing to leave in the world. We could set one safe in a necklace.”

Dean’s sweating, trying to tug the thing away from his face. For all that it looks as brittle as twigs, it doesn’t budge. 

“Sammy?” says Dean. “A little help dealing with your bright idea here?”

Sam takes a deep breath and stays put. His stomach roils at the image of this creature’s tiny, sharp hands clawing Dean’s eye out. But they’re bargaining. Fairies are opportunists, but they do play by rules. 

“Your price is too high,” he says. “We’re asking for a single elf-bolt, not the keys to your kingdom.”

“Fair enough,” says the creature. It moves its prickly claw away from Dean’s eye and yanks at his hair, so hard there are small beads of blood on Dean’s scalp and Sam can see tears in his eyes.

“Ouch,” says Dean. “Not that I’m complaining about no eye-gouging, but was that necessary?”

The creature has taken out a bulbous glass thing, almost like a test tube, though more at the alchemical end of chemical. It brushes a tiny drop of Dean’s blood and then one of sweat and puts them in its jar. Then it swipes at Dean’s eye. Sam surges forward, but it comes away with nothing but another droplet.

“Blood, sweat, and tears,” it says, “mortal things. Commodities. These I will take. And what about you? You were the bargainer. Do you also have something to offer?”

It springs like a grasshopper from Dean’s shoulder to Sam’s chest, clinging to his jacket, swinging like a kitten climbing a curtain. Sam tries not to move.It’s his turn. It’s remarkably hard not to panic, feeling it prod at him with his needle-sharp fingers. But at least nothing’s sucking him down. He’s not being swallowed up.

“We remember you, too,” it says, “though you were never our guest. You were almost like one of us.”

“I didn’t have a soul at the time,” says Sam, though he doesn’t remember being particularly fairylike.

“And you’re still not connected, are you?” It walks its fingers along his chest. “So many things in there that aren’t quite yours. So many things you keep out of reach. So many things you’re afraid to join up. Wise, maybe. One faulty connection can set the whole place on fire.” And it plunges its tiny arm into Sam’s chest, up to the shoulder. Sam hadn’t known fairies could do that. He’d thought it was just angels.

It doesn’t hurt, like it did with Cas. It tickles. Sam holds very still. This is not a big deal. Like the thing said, Sam keeps most of his stuff out of reach, even if he can feel it sorting, carding strands like wool.

“You’re not taking my soul,” he says carefully. He doesn’t think it can, but better be sure.

“If an eye is too high a price, a soul certainly is. And I have no use for it. All I want is your connection to something. One of those rare connections of yours. Just to see how it works. A single strand of soul stuff.”

“Not my connection to Dean,” says Sam. “Or Mom,” he adds, though he’s not sure there’s anything there for this thing to collect.

“Too high a price,” the thing agrees. “Something small. Not even something good, necessarily. If those ones you named are good. You won’t miss it. You won’t even know which it is.” 

It twists something in Sam’s chest and pulls out a frayed, glowing thread, bending in the air like one of those inch-worm things that let themselves down from trees. 

Sam wonders what it was. He doesn’t feel less connected than before. His guilty taste for tea lattes? Still there. Cas saying _Sam, of course, is an abomination_ , that faint hurt — not at the _abomination_ , at the _of course_ — still there. That first quarter at Stanford, getting all his papers back, still there. The thought of something giving way, being pulled down, suffocation, still there. Make-up sex.

It seems like enough to Sam, even if there’s something makeshift about it, him and history, his assembly of items not joined up like they should be. One fewer, now, too. But it’s still enough, enough to be getting on with. Sometimes he even gets a new piece. Mom came back, she’s there, even if Sam can’t quite connect. So get on with it.

“Are we done?” he says.

The creature takes out a tiny rod of silver. 

“Make it work, for all our sakes,” it says. “We are done.”

“Not really planning to do anything for your sake,” says Dean. “No offense, but you’re creepy.”

But the creature is gone. Dean lets out a long whistle and heads back to the car.

“We’re not doing that again,” he says.

“It worked,” says Sam. “One elf-bolt.” 

He drops it into Dean’s hand. Dean looks at it jadedly.

“I guess it’s all fun and games as long as no one loses an eye,” he says. “OK, let’s do the thing.”

 

“So, this is going to work?” says Hester. Ursula sniffs at the elf-bolt and her hackles rise.

“It’s what we came up with,” says Sam. One of the things about the Brits, they managed to at least make it look like they didn’t improv everything by the seat of their pants. “It’s … the logic is right.”

It feels incomplete, somehow, though. Not that he and Dean didn’t pay a price for it. But it’s a bit too _deus ex machina_ , not complicated enough. Power is supposed to be complicated.

“So, how do we find this thing and elf-bolt it? Just go for a walk in the woods?”

Maybe they need to have sex on the car again. That wouldn’t be the end of the world. 

“Right now it’s drawing on the mill. No wind, it won’t manifest. Too much wind, enough time to build power, we’re screwed. It’s all about timing and weather.”

There are rustles outside the cave. Sam imagines more of those prickly, oak-leaf, fairy creatures. But it’s probably just the wind.

“Now’s as good a time as any,” says Hester. “Look, you guys don’t need to come with. You did us a favor. If your thing-that-might-work doesn’t work, no hard feelings.”

“We’re coming. You might need back-up.”

Dean’s going because Dean doesn’t leave people who might need back-up, even if he’s not on their side. Sam’s going because the whole thing’s ambiguous, Exxon, Ursula and her moose, the uses of power, and he’s stuck being part of that. He wants to see where it ends. And because Dean’s going. There’s that.

They drive, though it’s not far, Ursula loping beside them. She moves surprisingly fast. They might need a getaway. And Dean likes to fight with his car at his back.

The woods by the mill are restless with breeze, choppy. The mill wheels are starting, turning, moving backwards, pausing. If this is about weather, it’s not clear whose side the weather is on. There are little whirlwinds of leaves here and there, but if they’re the elemental and not just leaves they’re playing it safe, not taking form.

They reconnoitre cautiously. Hester’s got the elf-bolt they’re pinning this on, lashed to an arrow. Ursula’s scenting the air, head swaying; if any of them can sense this thing among the distracting half-whirlwinds, it will be her. Sam and Dean, well. They’ve got guns and they’re good at bait.

Ursula gives a warning growl. A black _thing_ whirrs up out of one of the half-formed whirlwinds. Sam is reminded of startling a grouse in the woods, way back, when Bobby tried to teach them the regular kind of hunting. Something comes at him, black, dipping heavily as it flies. There’s a clanking flurry in front of his face and something slices his neck. He raises his arm in front of his face. The thing veers off towards Dean.

Dean shoots and there’s a ping like the bullet hit metal, then a fluttering thud. Ursula pounces on whatever it is. It flaps its sharp wings and she whines but holds on.

“The fuck,” says Sam. He puts his hand to his neck. It comes away bloody. “Was that a bird?”

“It was metal,” says Dean. “Robo-bird?”

“I told you it used the forge,” says Hester. “Fire and life to wrought iron. I told you it was escalating.”

Ursula is holding the thing down under one blunt, cut paw. Its wings drum the ground with a dull, sporadic clanging. Dean approaches cautiously. 

“Watch out,” he says to Ursula. There’s a shot and a rattle. The thing goes still. Ursula lifts her paw, slow and careful. It doesn’t come back to life.

“Well, that worked,” says Dean. He turns slowly around, gun cocked. “Your metal bird army’s not too impressive so far,” he says to the proto-whirlwinds. “Though it went for my brother. I’m holding a grudge for that. Send another killer pigeon and I’ll blow the little metal head off of it, too.”

One of the whirlwinds begins to darken and take shape. It’s not just a funnel, now. It looks now like a person, now like a bear, now like a tree, all made from a swarm of energy and matter. And it speaks. Its voice sounds to Sam like a shush of grain, sliding, pulling someone under. But then, Sam’s losing blood. 

“This is just the beginning. We harnessed the mill. We harnessed the forge. You, all of you, you’re living on stolen powers. We can take them back. Not just a few quaint relics. Oil fields. The atom. We can win the war. Maybe you prefer nobly losing. But we want to win.”

Hester shakes her head.

“You can’t use power that way,” she says. “That’s the whole point.” 

She peers at it, gauging wind and solidity, elfbolt arrow to her bow. Dean’s crouching beside Sam, checking his neck. From the noise he makes, Sam’s not bleeding out just yet, though he’s guessing his new tie is toast. Too bad. He’d gotten attached. They’d worked something out together, him and Dean and the tie. Now the tie’s got blood on it.

That starts a chain of thought in Sam’s mind.

He’s not sure what’s what. Any call he makes is likely to be wrong. But that’s no excuse for not making the call. Hester and Ursula, they’re protecting something, but they’re not trying to reshape the world. They’re working together, though Hester’s a woman and Ursula is a bear. They’re working with him and Dean, though they don’t like hunters.

Sam had thought the elfbolt would work. Maybe it will. He’d thought they needed something from elsewhere. He still thinks they do. But maybe elsewhere’s too simple. 

He leans against the car. He’s dizzy. The car’s compromised. Sooner or later they’re going to have to move on, put her away, get a hybrid, go electric. But she’s solid. She’s Sam’s life and Sam’s ambivalent about that, but she still helped save the world. 

“You can’t rid the world of shit,” he says. The creature spins and changes. He can’t tell if it hears him. “It doesn’t work that way. You can’t ever get to where it’s going to be after. You’re always stuck here. And it’s shit. I know it’s shit. Hester, Ursula, me and Dean, you’re right, we’re all losing. We’re not even on the same side. Even me and Dean, sometimes. You might even be right. God knows I never am. But we can’t let you do this.”

The thing, the elemental, doesn’t answer, probably because the breeze is fading. The leaves are hanging still for the moment. The sails of the mill aren’t turning. They’ve got a respite, or they’ve lost an opportunity, depending on how you see it. The thing’s not solid enough right now for Hester to take her shot. It could be, though, any moment. Wind power’s a chancy thing. If Sam takes time to decide, to make changes, he could lose them this.

He tries to retrieve his train of thought. Something to do with blood. But it’s not about sacrifice. That’s something Sam’s trying not to do any more. It’s about collaboration, all of them working together. It’s about taking the lead, even if his idea is crazy. 

“Hester,” he says, “give me that arrow for a sec.”

“Sam, the breeze could pick up any moment. I’ve got the elfbolt. It’s solid. We don’t need last-minute adjustments.”

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” says Sam. 

“Now you don’t think it will work? And you’ve got something better?”

“I want to try something,” he says.

“Sam?” says Dean. “We going on something here?”

“Just my gut,” says Sam. Sam’s gut is notoriously unreliable. Sam knows that. God knows Dean knows that. Ursula and Hester don’t know that, but they might be catching on. But Sam can’t let himself off the hook and just not listen. He has to try this.

“Give the man the arrow,” says Dean. Hester looks doubtful, but she does. Ursula is standing steady, head swaying slowly. Sam feels vaguely like she’s on his side.

“Dean,” he says, “get me something from the car. Something small. A nut, something like that. With oil on it, if possible. Quickly. The damn breeze could pick up any minute.”

“Maybe just the elf bolt would work,” though his gut is saying no, “but I’m going for overkill.” 

He has plenty of his own blood on hand. Never mind his goddamn past right now, it’s human enough. And Ursula … he smears a bit of his own blood on the elf-bolt arrow and hands it to her. She snuffles it curiously, then sets her cut paw down on it.

Dean hands him an oil-crusted nut. 

“You’re winging this, aren’t you?” he says. “I’m raiding my car for you and you’re winging it.”

“Overkill,” Sam reminds him. 

Or, not overkill. They aren’t all on the same side, but they are all in this together. Connections. It’s true what the fae creature said, that Sam’s gone minimalist on that front. Not now. Now he’s slathering it on, connecting it all. Not choosing sides. Making a side. “And get me duct tape,” he adds. Sam’s not the most connected guy, but there’s always duct tape. Dean fishes it out without comment and hands it to him.

The final result is a bit unwieldy. Well, Sam was in a hurry. There’s an ominous rustle in the bushes around them. The Death Pigeons are starting to rattle. 

Sam hands the arrow to Hester.

“Give that a try,” he says. His luck has held, for once. The breeze didn’t pick up while he was working, but now the upper branches are starting to sway. Sam feels a drop of rain. No, oil. 

“Sam, there’s no way I can shoot this,” says Hester. “It’s off-balance, it weighs a ton, it won’t fly.”

That’s probably something Sam should have thought of. He looks at Dean, but it’s not like they can stick an arrow in a gun barrel and shoot it. The breeze is tugging at his sleeves, now. Sam’s overkill, this-is-too-easy thing may have doomed them all. He’ll just have to hope there’s still time. He clutches the arrow and starts to crawl towards the thing. He’s a bit dizzy, but he’ll have to stay low anyway. It works.

“For fuck’s sake, Sam,” says Dean. “You are not the reasonable choice to do this. Give that damn thing to me.”

It was Sam’s idea. The elf-bolt alone might have worked just fine, and it would fire from a bow. If someone’s going to get killed for Sam’s overkill, it ought to be Sam. 

But it was supposed to be about teamwork. And him and Dean, they’re not always quite on the same side, but somehow they always manage to work together. Or almost always.

Sam gives Dean the whole lopsided, ugly-ass improvised arrow. It’s insane to think it will work. Just the elf-bolt would have been better, all shiny and elegant. This looks like it needs duct tape. It looks like something Sam would make. And Sam’s trusting Dean’s life to it. 

You make the call, you have to follow through. Sometimes you’ve got to let someone else follow through. It feels terrible.

“Don’t get killed,” Sam says.

Dean just grunts. Then he’s off, low to the ground through the freshening breeze. It’s strong enough now the mills wheels are turning. Something dark dive-bombs Dean. Dean rolls and shoots. Another metal pigeon falls with a clatter. There’s one swooping at Ursula, too; she rears and bats it away.

“Now!” shouts Hester. “Hurry!” 

Sam stays quiet. Dean doesn’t need him yelling at him. It will just break his concentration. Dean has to dodge another pigeon thing, and Sam hears him grunt as it clips his head, but he’s there, he’s almost there. 

The funnel of power, leaves and gears and tiny bones of animals, sparks and drops of oil (and what if the whole thing catches?) spins faster, reaching out to Dean. It should really just run away, but it’s making its stand. Maybe it’s rooted, somehow. That’s something Sam and Dean haven’t had, something Sam’s envied. They’ve never had a place to stand to move the world. But that means, at least sometimes, they can choose their ground.

Dean drives the arrow home. Sam half expects an explosion of oil, like another Leviathan, ending with Dean gone. But the whirlwind subsides with something more like a sigh, a patter of acorns and bones, a littered ring of oil. Ursula moves towards it in her cautious, graceful shambles and sniffs. She sits back on her haunches for a moment, thinking. Then she scratches dirt and leaf mould over the remnants, like a dog burying a bone, like a cat covering its scat. Except it’s not like that. It’s a ritual. Sam bows his head. Partly because he’s lost blood and his neck is hurting like hell. Partly because it seems respectful. 

 

“Remember, moose against windshield, we’ll be back,” says Dean. It’s a very Dean goodbye. He climbs into the driver’s seat. Dean never ruins his lines with second thoughts. Sam lingers.

“We’re still going to try to stop the pipeline,” says Hester. “But look on the bright side. It’s like the elemental said, we’re losing. At least when we’ve lost we won’t have a body count. But we’ve got to keep fighting.”

“With moose. And a body count. And even if you keep it off your land, they’re just going to build somewhere else.”

“You’re a joy to be around, Sam Winchester. Anyone told you that about yourself?”

Sam smiles. He’s weirdly at ease with this woman who’s not on his side, who he might have to kill. Ursula, too. She’s at Hester’s shoulder, a bulky, dangerous, unjudging presence. 

“It’s worth fighting. And maybe, you know, there’s more no-body-count things you could do. Even without going big and saving the world. You said the locals know about, uh, things.”

“Yes and no. Really mostly no.”  
“Still, it’s a place to start. Get someone on your side.”

“Local action. That tends to be another losing battle. But who knows. Perhaps there’ll be protests. People power. What about you? You ever get an itch to go big and proactive and save the world?”

That’s not something Sam wants to talk about. He’s always behind, trying to fix something, and then damage control turns out to be overreach. And then he retreats too far and comes back and makes the wrong stand. Rinse and repeat. But maybe, if you leave the world-ending out of it, that’s normal. Not a curse, just something he has to work on, like getting things right with Dean.

“We’re better at local action,” he says. And maybe for once he can build from there. Though he and Dean have their own body count.

“I’ll let you get back to that,” says Hester. She looks critically at the car, Dean already simmering in the driver’s seat. “You can always take up another cause or two. Get rid of that gas-guzzler, that would be a start. Get a hybrid. You could even go all the way electric.”

“I can’t,” says Sam. “She’s Dean’s.” And his, his inescapable compromise of a life.


End file.
